Turning Nasty (Anna McColl Mystery Series Book 4)

by Penny Kline

  After she moved on Bill hoisted himself up, wincing again, and cursing under his breath. ‘You wanted to know how it happened. Couldn’t see a thing. Too many lights. All over in a matter of seconds. How’s Ian? Grace said he wasn’t feeling too good.’

  ‘Flu,’ I said. ‘There’s a lot of it about at the moment. Actually I haven’t seen him for a few days. I’m planning to call round at your house the day after tomorrow.’

  He took off his glasses and placed them on the bedside cabinet. ‘You must be wondering why I wanted to see you. Didn’t expect you to take any notice of Grace’s message. The last time we spoke I was very rude.’

  ‘No, that wasn’t the last time. You rang back and apologized.’

  He laughed, touching his injured shoulder, then pulling impatiently at his gaping pyjama jacket and attempting to do up the buttons with the fingers of one hand. I decided not to offer any help. Some people slip easily into the role of patient, even enjoy it. Bill Hazeldean wasn’t one of them.

  ‘It’s about Ian,’ he said. ‘Since I’ve been in here I’ve had time to think. He doesn’t say very much, about his mother, but I don’t feel he’s reacted normally. I know you’ve seen him several times but do you think he’s making much progress.’

  ‘These things take time.’ Had he talked to Ian about our sessions together and disapproved of the way I was trying to help?

  ‘The grieving process,’ he said. ‘I’m not quite as ignorant or insensitive as you imagine. People go through stages, don’t they? As far as I can tell Ian’s still in the first one. Denial of what’s happened. Denial that Maggie’s dead.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean, but as I said, I think he just needs time, time before he can allow himself to grieve. Boys his age aren’t given to expressing strong emotions.’

  Bill snorted, putting his hand up to push the hair out of his eyes. ‘Boys of all ages, you mean. Anyway, another reason I wanted to see you, I wondered if you knew how the police investigation’s going. Terry says you know the superintendent at the local station.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m afraid I don’t really know any more than you do.’

  He looked as if he didn’t believe me. ‘So they’re still seeing the fire in terms of an arson attack by right-wing extremists?’ ‘As far as I know. If there’s something in particular you wanted to ask them… ’ ‘What’s the point?’ He let his head tip back over the top of the pillow. When he closed his eyes I took it as a sign that he wanted me to leave, but a moment later he started talking again. ‘You don’t think the police suspect… No, it’s a crazy idea. Lying here in this God-awful place gives you too much time to think, makes you morbid.’

  I moved my chair closer to the bed. ‘Maggie didn’t have any enemies, someone who felt so strongly — ’

  ‘No, no, of course not. Well, if she did I’d have been the last person to hear about it.’ He reached out a hand, feeling for the surface of his locker. ‘There’s some chocolates somewhere. The school secretary. I suppose she had a whip-round among the staff.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Watching your figure.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sorry, just one of those stupid remarks that seem to emerge, unplanned, at regular intervals. Lying here like an idiot makes you talk like one. If Maggie hears me say something like that she blows her… ’ He broke off, realizing what he’d said. ‘I loved her, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry,’ he snapped. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He closed his eyes again. ‘Oh, take no notice, what is it about you people, why do I always end up apologizing? It’s oppressive, all that long-suffering endurance. There’s a teacher at the school just the same. The kids exploit her left, right and centre. Mind you, nobody in her class goes on to secondary school with a reading age below twelve or thirteen.’

  The man in the next bed looked as if he had stopped breathing. It was an illusion. It must be. I watched the bedclothes carefully but could see no movement at all, then all of a sudden he turned over, coughed loudly and stretched out his arm, knocking his bottle of lemon barley water to the floor. His visitor, a dark-haired woman in her late thirties or early forties, bent down to retrieve the bottle. She reminded me of someone. A client I had helped to come off tranquillizers? No, Della Haff — the aromatherapist who worked in the same building as Jon Turle. It wasn’t her, of course, just someone with the same colouring, the same slightly exotic appearance. My mind wandered, remembering how Nick had said Jon Turle was short of clients. Was it the same for Della Haff, or did people find it easier to talk about their problems while someone was massaging their body with scented oils?

  Bill’s eyes were still half closed. ‘You see, in some ways Ian’s like me,’ he said. ‘He needs things to be clear cut, black and white. If the police found who did it, put a name to the bastard, I think we could both accept what’s happened. We’d have someone to blame, something definite to work on.’

  It was a strange way of putting it, but I knew what he meant. While he was talking I had been thinking how once I had suspected he himself might have been responsible for the fire. But if that had been true surely he would have behaved quite differently. Acted the grief-stricken estranged husband, welcomed the way I was helping Ian, kept tabs on the police investigation… But wasn’t that exactly what he was doing now? Grace having passed on the information that I knew Howard Fry, Bill wanted to make sure the police were still treating the arson attack as a racist reprisal.

  ‘The accident,’ he said. ‘I mean my stupid thing on the bike. It was that roundabout up near Westbury Park, I expect Grace told you. The car swerved across my path, then shot off in the direction of Whiteladies Road. I haven’t said anything to the police, there didn’t really seem much point, but it wasn’t an accident. Whoever was driving did it quite deliberately. He was trying to kill me.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Owen never phoned me at work. When Heather put his call through I thought something awful had happened. Ian was seriously ill, it was meningitis, not flu, Grace had gone round to the house and found him in a coma.

  ‘No, no problem,’ said Owen, ‘just to let you know we’re going out this evening.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  He picked up the coolness in my voice and pretended to sound surprised. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘How do you know I want to go out? I might have something on.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘No.’

  He hesitated. Perhaps he really had forgotten it was the first time we had spoken to each other since he had stormed out of the flat. Hardly stormed, that wasn’t Owen’s style. What had the argument been about? Not even a proper row, just Owen flaring up as usual because he didn’t like my job, felt I became over-involved in my clients’ problems. He was jealous, that’s all it was, but a small, persistent voice inside my head had been wondering if he might not have a point.

  He was giving me instructions about how to find a restaurant. ‘It’s a new place near the Colston Hall, but if you don’t feel like it I’ll go on my own. It’s Terry’s treat. He’s got his personal Chair.’

  ‘Professor Curtis?’

  ‘Wants us to help him celebrate. He’s booked a table for eight o’clock.’

  There was nothing I felt like less but maybe in three hours’ time I might be feeling hungrier. ‘What’s the name of this place?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Owen said. ‘Only opened last month. There’s a red dragon in the window, or painted on the glass, I forget. See you there, shall I? No point in meeting up somewhere else first.’

  My last client had left a few minutes before Owen’s call. A personnel officer with a well-paid job working for a large company in the city centre, he had given the impression he was outraged that he was failing to handle his discontented wife and three young sons using the same efficient methods that worked so well in his office. Angry to the point where I was afraid he might make himself ill, he had taken all his frustration ou
t on me. Then, as he was leaving, he had expressed amazement that for some unknown reason — nothing I had said or done — he seemed to be feeling rather better.

  When Heather buzzed me again, to say Jon Turle was in the waiting room, my first response was to ask her to lie on my behalf, pretend I must have gone home. ‘No, hang on, what does he want?’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me, Anna. Shall I — ’

  ‘No, ask him to come up.’

  As soon as I saw him I knew this was not just another attempt to wriggle out of all responsibility for Imogen Nash. He looked terrible, drained of all colour, except for his puffy, reddened eyelids. ‘I hoped you’d be free.’ He stood in the doorway for a moment, then marched into the room, banged the door behind him, and sat down, pushing back his chair to increase the distance between us.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’s not about Imogen.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘I just want to explain. It’s all so… ’

  A heavy piece of road-mending equipment was being transported past the window, preceded by a policeman on a motor cycle. As it slowed down my windows started to vibrate and I made a mental note to tell Martin, again that he must insist we have double-glazing installed.

  Jon seemed oblivious of the noise. He was squeezing his throat, as if he was having difficulty forcing out the words. ‘Maggie, it’s about me and Maggie. We were… ’

  ‘Maggie Hazeldean?’ Suddenly the room felt almost unbearably stuffy.

  ‘I loved her,’ said Jon, his voice shaking with emotion — or anxiety.

  ‘Yes, I see.’ What else could I say. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. Ever since it happened — the fire… I don’t know how I’ve kept going. All those ridiculous things people say… Not that anyone knew about us so at least I don’t have to endure an endless catalogue of meaningless platitudes.’

  What did he want? Sympathy? Bereavement counselling? I was a little shocked at how detached I felt, how lacking in compassion. Still, he should have told me all this before, that way I wouldn’t have wasted hours wondering about him and Imogen, trying to work out which of them was telling the truth, what was going on.

  ‘I thought she loved me.’ He closed his eyes, then stretched them wide, as though he was having an effort to stay awake. ‘She did love me. It was just… It was too soon.’

  ‘Too soon after her separation from Bill?’

  ‘Yes. No. She didn’t want a permanent relationship. There were too many things going on in her life. Look, the reason I came here, you think I encouraged Imogen, then when she became too demanding… ’ ‘I never said that.’

  ‘No, but that’s what you were thinking.’ I made no comment. Now that he had ‘confessed’ his breathing was slower, and his arms hung limply by his sides. ‘No doubt someone passed on the rumour about my affair with a client,’ he said flatly. ‘If you’re interested, that was someone entirely different, someone who works in Bath but used to have a room here in Bristol, quite near where I work.’ His eyes met mine, then moved away. ‘Do you ever feel like giving up?’ He glanced at my desk, filing cabinet, the reproduction of Diirer’s drawing of a hare that hung on the wall, next to the window. ‘If I had the cash I’d open a restaurant. Dealing with complaints about the food would be nothing, not compared with all this.’

  A moment ago he had been overwhelmed with grief. Now he was angry about the kind of problems all therapists have to face, and talking about changing his career.

  I stood up. ‘They say chefs can be fairly temperamental.’

  ‘No, please, I haven’t finished. You know Maggie’s ex-husband, and Ian.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  His body slumped. ‘The police seem to think the fire was the work of a group of racists. Is that what you think?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You thought I did it. No, don’t pretend. You thought Maggie had reported me for professional misconduct.’

  ‘It would be a bit drastic, wouldn’t it, killing someone just because they’d complained about — ’

  ‘Not if the first rumour had been true and then Imogen had accused me… Look, you don’t have to believe me but if you’re thinking of going to the police it’ll be a waste of everyone’s time.’

  ‘I wasn’t even considering it,’ I said. ‘Now, to get back to Imogen. She’s ill, flu or something, but when she recovers I think the best way to help her would be for all three of us to get together and try to sort things out.’

  ‘What kind of things?’ There were beads of sweat on his upper lip and his hands were gripping the arms of the chair.

  I sat down again. If I forced myself to be friendlier towards him I might find out something about Maggie Hazeldean, something that could possibly lead the police to her murderer. ‘Calm down, I only meant we should discuss how Imogen got it into her head you were in love with her. Only I’d prefer not to explain it in cold clinical terms. I don’t know about you but, in terms of how people feel, I can’t see a great deal of difference between transference and so-called normal infatuation.’

  His expression changed. He leaned forward with his hands on his thighs, kneading the muscles, trying to get rid of the tension. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Whatever you think best. I really loved her, you know. Maggie — I was obsessed with her, still am.’ He broke off for a moment, remembering, I hoped, how he had accused Imogen of having a silly obsession. ‘If she’d moved into my flat it need never have happened. The house in Bishopston, it doesn’t look much of a place, but the whole area’s coming up. Maggie had quite a few friends, living nearby. She believed in involving herself in the local community, only of course that meant… ’

  ‘What did it mean? I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me.’

  ‘Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Ever since it happened I’ve been going through in my head… all the people she mentioned, a man who’d lost his job and Maggie was helping him with an appeal for unfair dismissal, some woman with an Indian husband… Oh, God, I can’t stand it, who the hell could have done such a terrible thing?’

  Martin had been out of the office all day, at a conference in Cheltenham. It was something to do with raising the profile of clinical psychology so the Health Trusts, or whatever they called themselves these days, would cough up more cash.

  I heard his footsteps bounding up the stairs and prepared myself to try to sound interested. I wanted to hear what had happened, but not just now, not at twenty-past five.

  ‘Anna? Oh, good, you’re still here. Listen, we may be getting a new member of the team. Nothing definite yet but I really laid it on how overworked we’ve been the last few months.’

  ‘Years, you mean. It’s been like it since Beth left to have her baby.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He was pacing up and down, keyed up, excited. The new herringbone jacket he had taken to wearing made him look like the person in charge of the place, but the effect was spoiled a little by his dirty-green shirt and red and blue tie.

  ‘There’s something else,’ he said, smiling to himself, enjoying keeping me in suspense.

  ‘I thought there might be. Come on, then, spit it out, you ran into that psychologist from Swindon, the one with baggy flowered trousers who goes around hugging everyone in sight?’

  ‘Don’t be crazy, I can’t stand the man. No, it’s about the woman who was burned to death in a fire.’

  ‘What about her?’ My heart was pounding.

  ‘Sue’s doing A level psychology, I told you, didn’t I? Her teacher’s a chap called Jameson. Anyway, the thing is he taught Maggie Hazeldean about eight or nine years ago, said she was the best student he’d ever had. He’s completely devastated by what’s happened. He’d kept in touch, taken an interest in her research, said she had some new theory that was going to wipe out everything that had gone before.’

  ‘Sounds a bit dramatic. What kind of theory? About why kids play up in the classroom?’

  ‘Not just that. Kids wi
th all kinds of behaviour problems. God, what a waste. When you think of all those dreary old academics churning out the same stuff year after year. Apparently she was genuinely interested in the subject, not just trying to promote her own career.’

  ‘They’re not all as bad as that,’ I said, surprised to hear myself springing to Owen’s defence.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean Owen,’ said Martin.

  ‘He’s got other interests apart from the university.’

  ‘Bird-watching?’

  Martin laid a hand on my shoulder. Any minute now and he would be encouraging me to talk. ‘Don’t ruin things with Owen,’ he said, using his counselling voice. ‘Us poor men haven’t a hope these days. If we’re kind and considerate we’re overdependent. If we go to the opposite extreme we’re male oppressors.’

  ‘Keep going,’ I said, ‘you could have me in tears.’

  Downstairs the phone had started ringing. Heather buzzed to ask if she could put Paddy Jinnah through.

  ‘Yes, all right, then.’

  Martin stood up to leave, then sat down again.

  ‘Hello, Paddy.’ I tried to sound pleased to hear from her. ‘How are you?’

  She began by expressing surprise that I was still there, then launched into a lengthy description of how she had been feeling since our talk. ‘Better but a bit strange, sort of light-headed. I dropped a bottle of tomato sauce and it smashed to smithereens and I burst into tears. Is that normal?’

  ‘Have you talked to Azim?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’ I slightly resented the fact that she had chosen to call the office after five-thirty, but how was she to know when we finished work? Perhaps she thought we worked shifts, had people on call, like doctors. Perhaps that was exactly what we ought to be doing, treating all our clients as emergencies, at least in the first instance.

  ‘I only called on the off chance,’ said Paddy. ‘I thought you’d probably have left by now, only I just wanted to thank you for listening. I’m ever so grateful. Oh, and there was something else only I don’t know if it’ll be much use.’ She paused and I heard her take a sip of coffee, or maybe it was something stronger. ‘You remember you once mentioned that poor lady who died in the fire. Well, Azim had to drive a man to Ashley Down. On the way they passed near the house, the place where it happened. Only the man’s friend has a young lad who said he’d seen a bloke carrying some kind of container.’